


keep me on my toes, keep me in the know

by ohcinnamon



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal, this is just a cute oneshot hshsjskksks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 22:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15828291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohcinnamon/pseuds/ohcinnamon
Summary: “Let’s get married,” Pete repeats, idly playing with the remote in his hands. He keeps hitting mute and then turning the sound back on, and it’s actually pretty distracting. “I prefer spring weddings.”it's a quiet december afternoon when pete poses the question the first time, and patrick saysmaybe. it's fifteen years later when he finally asks again.





	keep me on my toes, keep me in the know

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written anything bandom related in a hot minute, so..... have this little oneshot i whipped up!! thank you all for reading, even when i split my attention between fandoms <3
> 
> (title from "crash" by you me at six)

“Patrick, let’s just run away and get married.”

Pete says it one day, completely out of the blue, in the middle of their shitty apartment, at 3:05 on a December afternoon. He’s sprawled out on the couch watching reruns of _Reba_ , Joe’s snoring next to him in the recliner, and Patrick is making toast and coffee to cure his hangover in the kitchen. There’s absolutely nothing remarkable about the day at all that warrants him saying such a thing, but there he is anyway, looking up at Patrick with warm amber eyes, lips curled into an easy smile, like it’s obvious.

Patrick looks up from the toaster, sizes him up, his nose scrunching up in confusion. “Uh. What?”

“Let’s get married,” Pete repeats, idly playing with the remote in his hands. He keeps hitting mute and then turning the sound back on, and it’s actually pretty distracting. “I prefer spring weddings.”

“Okay, I have a couple of problems with that,” Patrick says, just as the toast pops up and nearly scares them both half to death. Once Patrick’s recovered a bit from the toast scare, he pulls himself together enough to explain to Pete why this is a terrible idea. “One, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“Not everywhere,” Pete reminds him, waving a finger in the air like he’s become a sudden genius. “We could, like, road trip to Canada or something. It would be fucking awesome.”

“ _Two,_ ” Patrick says, ignoring his interjection. “It’s the middle of December. That’s not exactly spring, Einstein.”

Pete just laughs at him, hitting the mute button on the remote and just leaving it silent, finally. “What, you think I meant now? With _what_ money?”

“Well, that was going to be point number three out of fifty,” Patrick says, wincing as the light in the kitchen hits his eyes in just the wrong way. He plops the toast onto a paper plate, fumbling over to the fridge to find butter. “When did you mean, then? Just out of pure curiosity.”

Pete shrugs, getting up from the couch and padding softly into the kitchen. The bottoms of his too-big sweatpants drag on the floor, and he stretches as he yawns. Suddenly, Patrick feels a lithe, squirmy body pressed up against his back, and familiar arms winding around his middle. He should have expected a sleepy-Pete hug attack. “I dunno. I just meant, like, eventually.”

“Sure,” Patrick snorts, trying to maneuver his way back to his toast with a knife in one hand and Pete clinging to him relentlessly. Pete drops his head onto Patrick’s shoulder, burying his face in his neck, and he sighs. “That’s gonna happen. We’ll get married and have… I don’t know, like, ten million kids.”

“We _will_ ,” Pete mumbles into the side of his neck, lips chapped and warm against his skin. “Okay, you don’t believe me right now, I know that. Make a deal with me. If we get famous and have, like, a _billion_ fans in the future or something, we’ll get married if neither of us are married by thirty.”

“Thirty’s a bit of a stretch,” Patrick says, gingerly putting the lid back on the butter container. “Plus, you’ll be thirty in like, five years, so that’s not fair to me, anyway.”

“Don’t remind me. I don’t wanna get old,” Pete groans, sighing sadly. His arms tighten around Patrick’s torso, and Patrick finally allows himself to relax into it. “When _you’re_ thirty, then.”

“Thirty-five,” Patrick counters, turning around to face him, the knife still in his hand. “If we’re famous and have, like, a _billion_ fans in the future, and neither of us are married by the time I’m thirty-five, I’ll marry you for the tax benefits.”

“Deal,” Pete says, grinning like an idiot, and Patrick’s left wondering what the hell he just got himself into.

“I didn’t think you’d go down that easy,” Patrick says, slipping out of his grasp long enough to place all of his toast-making materials back where they rightfully belong. “You’re up to something.”

“What, just because I agreed to your conditions, I’m _up to something?_ ” Pete asks, an indignant tone to his voice. “I’m just up to take what I can get, here. _You’re_ the one who’d have to agree to marry _me_ , so sorry if I’m cool with whatever would make you say ‘I do.’”

“Sure, Pete. I believe _that_ 100%.”

Pete ignores this, reaching over and stealing one of the pieces of toast off of Patrick’s plate, much to the latter’s distress. He tears off part of the crust and pops it into his mouth, still grinning like he’s got something else in mind. “Besides, you’ll fall in love with me any day now. I won’t have to wait fifteen years for you.”

“You wish,” Patrick mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose as the pain of his hangover-headache comes flooding back.

“I _won’t_ ,” Pete insists, pulling himself away from Patrick and wandering over to the coffee machine. “See? You’d be lucky to have a husband like me. I’m making you coffee in your time of need, you lightweight.”

Patrick sighs, but there’s a laugh in the back of his throat that he can’t keep from bubbling up. “Pete, I made that coffee.”

Pete takes out the sugar and cream, grabs Patrick’s favorite mug — the one with the cat wielding a lightsaber on it (it’s dorky, he knows, but it’s _everyone’s_ favorite mug, so he feels less nerdy when everyone in the apartment is fighting over it) — and makes Patrick’s coffee for him. “Okay, you brewed it, but I know exactly how you like to drink it. That’s got to count for something.”

He brings it over for Patrick to try, and okay, yeah, that _does_ count for a little something. He has no idea how Pete knows the exact proportions of what he likes, but he’s not gonna question it, especially when Pete would probably just deflect the question with some ridiculous answer. As annoying as Pete can be most of the time, he’s also sweet. It’s moments like these that help Patrick remember that. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible being married to you, Wentz. You do know how I like my coffee.”

Joe takes that exact moment to wake up, his eyes widening when he catches a whiff of what’s going on in the kitchen. “Mm, what are yo— _toast._ ”

 

* * *

 

Patrick stumbles into their apartment clumsily, still a bit wine-drunk, and Pete just laughs and tightens his arm around his waist. “Careful, babe. You already fell for me once; you don’t have to do it again.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Patrick scoffs, but he’s grinning. It’s _true_. “If I didn’t love you I’d hate you for your puns.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you love me, then, because they’re not going away any time soon.”

"Good."

Pete sheds his suit jacket almost immediately, draping it over the arm of their sofa, but Patrick’s still a bit cold from the April chill. He makes grabby hands toward Pete, unusually affectionate for once, and Pete grins, making his way over. Patrick knows he loves it when he’s like this, so why not indulge in it while he still has an excuse to?

“Did you like your birthday dinner?” Pete asks, wrapping his arms around him from behind and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

Patrick hums out a content sigh, a sweet smile spreading across his face. “Yeah, I did, actually. Thank you for taking me out.”

“Of course,” Pete says, nuzzling his face into the side of Patrick’s neck. “It’s your birthday, you deserve only the best. I wanted to treat you as much as possible.”

“Mission accomplished,” Patrick chuckles, soft and deep in his throat. “You got me some classy as hell wine, and that was the best fucking pasta I’ve ever had. You really have outdone yourself this year.”

“Good,” Pete declares, pressing a kiss to the warm skin before backing off. “Although we’re not quite done yet, you know. I’m full of surprises.”

Patrick groans, missing his warmth already. “No, come back. I want to cuddle with you. Or like, have you blow me. Or both. Both would be good.”

“Come out to the balcony with me,” Pete murmurs, lacing their fingers together. “I have one last birthday present for you.”

“I am not having sex with you on the balcony,” Patrick retorts, just to watch him blush. He can be somewhat of the devious one, too, when he wants to be.

As expected, Pete flushes just a bit, but quickly regains his composure. “ _Not_ that, asshole. Just… come out and look at the stars with me. I want this to be perfect for you.”

“You’re so _saaaappy_ ,” Patrick mumbles, but he allows himself to be dragged out onto their balcony, secretly grinning to himself all the way. Whatever Pete’s got planned, it’s bound to be over the top romantic, but Patrick’s used to that by now — he loves the dude, what more do you want him to say?

The stars are bright overhead, for once, despite the light pollution, and the light breeze caresses his skin gently. He can smell a hint of moisture in the air; it’s going to rain soon, but that’s all right. Pete sleeps better during a thunderstorm anyway.

And then he looks over at Pete, whose amber eyes are filled with love and admiration and awe, and his chest fills with warmth so quickly it feels like he’s going to burst with it. “Trick, this might sound crazy, but the reason we’re here is because I have something to ask you.”

Pete drops down on one knee, and Patrick’s breath catches in his throat.

“You remember that afternoon in our old band apartment, when you promised me that you’d marry me if we were both still single when you turned thirty-five?” Pete asks, his gaze sparkling with something deep and melancholic.

“Of course I do,” Patrick murmurs, his feet frozen to the ground. He’s transfixed by the sight in front of him, the man he loves _down on one knee_ with a little black box in his head, and he’s so dizzy right now he thinks he could throw up.

“Happy birthday,” Pete laughs softly, the corners of his lips turning up in a nervous smile. Patrick knows that expression — it looks like he’s on the verge of tears. “Though, hopefully, if you _do_ want to marry me, it won’t just be for the tax benefits.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick whispers, his eyes widening. The breeze is ruffling his hair and Pete’s gaze is still so, so warm and _oh god_ , this is _happening_ , this is all real. He’d mulled over this moment in his head in the past, wondered how it was going to happen, if it ever was, but never did he imagine that Pete was going to bring up the promise he made _fifteen years ago._

“Marry me,” Pete murmurs, and Patrick feels his chest fill and hold. “Run away with me. We could do it, if you wanted to.”

He opens the box, and Patrick catches a flash of gold in the dim light, and that’s when the tears begin to sting his eyes, because that’s what makes it _real_. The ring isn’t anything fancy, because neither of them needs that, but it’s so _them_ that it hurts. Patrick can make out a hint of an engraving on the inside that looks a suspicious amount like their initials, and he melts on the spot.

He drops down onto his knees to be on Pete’s level, heavy tears rolling down his cheeks, and gathers him into his arms. “Yeah, of _course_ , oh my god, Pete, I fucking _love you._ ”

And then Pete’s pulling him in closer, hiding his face in Patrick’s suit, and _sobbing_ , his entire body shaking with it. Patrick has no idea how he’s been holding this in all night — _fuck_ , how long has he been _planning this_ — but he’s so, so glad that everything in his life has led up to this moment. He’s holding his shivering boyfriend — fiancé... holy _fuck_ — on their balcony, and the stars are beautiful, bright pinpoints overhead, and it’s perfect, just like Pete wanted it to be.

When he pulls back from the embrace, he rests his hand on Pete’s chest, and he can feel Pete’s heart thumping against his palm, like it’s about to burst straight out of his chest. It occurs to him just then that Pete had been scared he was going to say “ _no_.” As if Patrick has ever been able to say no to him. It’s been nearly two decades since they met, and there has never been a time when Patrick was able to fully stay away from him — not during the fighting and drama of _Folie,_ not even during the hiatus. They’d come back together, as they always had, just like puzzle pieces that couldn’t have even considered fitting anywhere else.

“You were right,” Patrick murmurs, cupping his face in both hands. His face is still soaking wet, streaked with tears, and Patrick brushes them away with his thumbs as best as he can. “I did fall in love with you. You didn’t have to wait all this time just to keep some bet we made when we were practically still kids.”

“I wanted to,” Pete says, a soft smile on his face. “You’ve kept me on my toes all of these years. It was worth it.”


End file.
